


soon the bells will start

by Anuna



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domesticity, F/M, Fluff, Gift Fic, Little bit of angst, Skyeward Secret Santa, Ward was never hydra, five christmasses, prompt based fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5518400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skye, Ward and Christmas; times five.</p>
            </blockquote>





	soon the bells will start

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a Christmas present for **no-really-iamfine** on tumblr, in Skyeward secret Santa exchange. I hope you enjoy it, darling :) Merry Christmas!

 

 

 

 

*****

**One.**

 

It's Christmas and she's stuck in a diner that smells of burnt oil and sugary food but at least it's _warm_ in there and nobody's asking her why she doesn't have a Christmas tree.

 

 

*

 

It's Christmas and he's standing at the shore, wind blowing viciously in his face and waves rising up to dangerous levels. The air temperature is falling. He lifts the collar of his coat and turns his face towards the sea, to shield himself from wind. He hoped the weather would be better, but this seems to be just the wind he was warned about, coming down from the mountains and turning the sea into the wild beast.

 

Along the coastline are houses, filled with light and warmth and sheltered from the wind rolling down the mountains, to freeze the coastline and the sea, and Grant has no idea if his mark will ever show up.

 

In the distance he can hear a church bell and he tells himself he doesn't mind being all alone.

 

 

**Two.**

 

“Hold still,” he says and Skye defiantly presses her lips together. He's definitely not a beginner, but he is no Simmons. She should probably look away from where he's stitching her up, but she can't, so now they're both focused on the cut that looks worse than it is and that needs actual stitches. “I told you not to do that,” he chastises her.

 

“She was going to run away. How could I know she had that knife?”

 

He huffs. “What even am I training you for? I told you -”

 

“She was running away, Ward. With all the data we worked on for three weeks -”

 

He can see her point. There's nobody on the plane but them and he makes sure to finish her stitches as quickly and painlessly he can.

 

“It's not worth your life,” he says, notes how his voice drops lower and wants to shake his head at himself, but then her expression goes to stubborn to soft, surprised and touched all at once and he can barely keep a lid on the emotions inside his chest.

 

He was trained to perform missions, not to protect one girl. This is ridiculous. And dangerous. _And_ all he wants is to keep her safe.

 

When he's done stitching her up, Skye hops off the table. He helps her button up her shirt and tries not to notice her bra. Ward tries not to smile and fails somewhere halfway and reassures her about contacting rest of the team – which he does, while she putters around the lab and uploads the difficultly won data to SHIELD's mainframe.

 

Now they can relax and let other teams catch the bad guys.

 

Ward goes to the kitchen because he does need to eat, also, it's of no use to stare longingly at something he's not allowed to have. But Skye being Skye follows and he notices how she slumps into the armchair, looking worn out and dejected, and there is no willpower or a rule in this world to prevent him from going to investigate what brought her down so suddenly.

 

She sighs when he sits on the couch and leans towards her. His eyebrows knit kindly as he tries not to show too much concern, but she's drawing him nearer.

 

“I was supposed to go Christmas shopping with Simmons. Yesterday. Before we -,” she says. For a moment he's confused before he realizes that last few hours of Christmas eve are ticking past them. Skye presses her lips together in an attempt not to let herself get too sad.

 

For a moment he stares dumbly at her wondering if this is just some girl thing. If it's something he wouldn't like doing anyway, even if his mother wasn't obsessive about perfect holidays and family gatherings. But Skye continues, unaware of his thoughts, proceeding to be open and giving him tidbits of herself.

 

“It's nice that this year I have someone to buy presents for,” she says in a self deprecating manner, words laced with humor carefully covering.... everything else.

 

The thing is, these tidbits make him hurt. No, they make him ache. He wants to reach back into past and pull Skye out of it. His tactical mind tells him not to dwell on the impossible. Practically, his eyes skim around the room until he sees the object he's searching for – Skye's prized laptop is sitting on the kitchen counter and he brings it, sitting down to his old spot. He's holding the precious piece of electronics on his knees as he pats the spot beside him.

 

“What?” Skye says.

 

“I'm no Simmons, but maybe we could do some Christmas shopping from here?” he offers and witnesses Skye's expression softening. She gets up from her spot to join him, and the first minutes of Christmas are infinitely warmer than he ever remembers with Skye at his side, teasing him into accepting a ridiculous sweater as a present from her.

 

*

 

**Three.**

 

 

Skye rubs her eyes and then her thighs and tells her body to hold out just a little bit more. She is so focused on the screens in front of her that everything around her – objects and light and people going in and out of the lab have become blurry, and the coffee next to her (a precious commodity these days) has gone cold. She's annoyed with herself because her stash is at the end and she's not sure when she'll be able to get more. It's not like she can go out and go to the nearest groceries store.

 

Because she's a terrorist.

 

Working for a terrorist organization banned by the government, even if she's been feeling like a freak for past two months – especially because she's been feeling like a freak.

 

She makes herself continue with her decoding even if her head is about to faceplant into the keyboard in front of her.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Skye closes her eyes and holds her breath. Normally, she likes Ward well. Normally. (And better than “well”.) But there hasn't been anything normal in a long while.

 

“Working,” she manages through pressed lips, not willing to turn around and face his bruises and his arm in a sling.

 

“Skye, you've been here for ten hours,” he states in that tone of voice he used to reprimand her back in the days when she begun her training. The gauntlets about her wrists are tight and itchy reminder why she cannot join teams out there that are doing actual work. She is cooped up here, struggling with feeling of being useless and the powers she did not want.

 

“And I'm going to be for ten more,” she stubbornly says. She can almost feel the protest rising from the pit of his stomach, because she can feel all sorts of things around her now. He doesn't move despite wanting to. Part of her just wants him to yell at her, to smack his fist into the desk, do something, treat her as if she's still an unreasonable person, not something different. But Ward, king of self restraint and buried emotions just sighs and comes a step closer.

 

“You will not do any good if you're too tired,” he points out reasonably. “You can cause damage,” he adds.

 

That, that is making her blood boil. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath and she knows Ward doesn't mean it like that, but she supposes she needs to have this fight with someone-

 

“That's all I can do, isn't it?” she says, and she regrets it while she's saying it, and despite that she rises from her seat and stares him in the eye. “Cause damage?”

 

“Skye -”

 

“Don't _Skye_ me, Grant,” she says, stepping closer. The gauntlets around her arms bite into her skin and she winces. He notices it, of course.

 

“Okay,” he says and grabs her arm, in a way that's bordering rude and painful. She protests but he drags her with him, out of the lab and through the corridors and to her room. He even slams the door behind them. Before she can say anything he pulls her to him and he's opening her gauntlets and throwing them aside. Her arms are bruised in the place where gauntlets have been. Ward just stares, and just when Skye is about to pull her hands away, he brushes gentle fingers along her bruises. Then he gives her a serious, serious look.

 

And she just _knows_.

 

(She knows she shouldn't have run away from him of all people.)

 

“Skye, why didn't you tell me?” he asks.

 

She stubbornly stares ahead, where her eyes level with his biceps.

 

He keeps a hold of her hand.

 

“Why didn't you tell me?”

 

“I -,” she pauses and takes a deep breath. “I _couldn't_.”

 

There's a moment when he pulls her chin up so she would face him. There's too much emotion in his eyes, loss and pain and longing and just a tiny bit of hurt, and this is exactly why she couldn't risk it, couldn't look him in the eye and see what she saw in so many others.

 

He nods. His hand touches her hair and trains down her cheek and then he grasps her hands anew and rubs her palms with his thumbs.

 

“You know, _I_ can kill people with a wave of my hand,” he says. She is so near crying, but it turns into a strangled laugh. “Am I a monster?”

 

To that Skye doesn't answer. He's been training her, wasn't he? And then they've been fighting against Hydra and she pulled the trigger herself a couple of times.

 

“What are you saying?” she asks.

 

“That monster is a relative term,” he says. “Look from a specific angle and anyone can be a monster.”

 

If she starts crying now, she will bawl her eyes out right here in front of him, everything she's been holding in for months now. And without a word, ward just seems to understand and he pulls her close and hugs her better than she ever imagined he could. Or would.

 

She's not blind. She sees the way he looks at her sometimes. (Often. Very often.) And right now it's an unspoken agreement that they _shouldn't_ – but right now she's crying, desperate to empty her chest of all the things she had been keeping inside ever since she turned.

 

Skye is sobbing, still trying to hold onto the powers under her skin. Ward's hands around her feel like only thing that keep her from falling apart.

 

“Let it go, Skye,” he whispers.

 

She clutches him.

 

“I'll hurt you then,” she says.

 

“No, you won't,” he answers, pulling her chin up and giving her a completely trusting look.

 

Her breath is caught in her throat. She's suddenly so scared. Not of her powers or Hydra or any of that – but as Ward's lips descend to hers, it dawns on her.

 

_Losing him._ She's absolutely terrified of losing him.

 

He kisses her slowly, gently, as if he's asking her to forgive him, and about one minute later she finally kisses him back. She presses into him and with it comes a feeling of relief and the rush of joy and shivers up her arms. Something dissolves within her and the ground beneath her feet rocks just slightly. She looks up. Grant is grinning.

 

“That good, huh?” he asks and it takes her a moment to realize that he's teasing her.

 

“Bastard,” she says.

 

“Merry Christmas,” he answers and she pulls him down for another kiss.

 

*

 

**Four.**

 

 

She feels like she might throw up. She also feels like all her power is hanging by a tiny shred of self control – and May seems to be aware of that. Skye is marginally aware of her concerned look, or the horrified expression on Jemma and Fitz's faces – all her anger, disbelief, shock is directed at Coulson, who has grown noticeably paler since this conversation has begun.

 

Skye feels sick. She feels shivery and cold and unreal. She hasn't been eating properly for the past three months and she hasn't been sleeping and her body feels too fragile to handle this kind of shock.

 

“You're telling me that he's – he's alive?”

 

Coulson nods. Skye clutches her own arm, holds herself tight and closes her eyes. She could cry but she has no tears left any more – not since she was told that Grant died on a mission.

 

“He's still alive, as far as we know,” Coulson says in a very dry voice.

 

Skye tries to move. Her legs give out and she needs to sit. She needs to breathe because she is suddenly very dizzy.

 

“He has infiltrated Hydra, and for his mission to succeed we all,” Coulson pauses. A suspicious look passes between him and May. “You all needed to believe he was dead. There could be no slip ups-”

 

“What?” Skye can barely ask.

 

“Especially _you_ , Skye,” Coulson says quietly. He looks like he's sorry. She _thinks_ he is sorry. But everything around her feels like warped, slowed down version of space time she doesn't belong to.

 

She feels another wave of nausea and has to take a deep breath and put a hand on her mouth to keep herself from vomiting.

 

“What – what do you mean especially me? I mourned him,” Skye says, practically shaking. “I – do you have any idea how – how I feel? Does that not matter at all?”

 

“Skye,” he starts, “this mission was too important to risk -”

 

“Risk what? Me giving something away? I am no rookie, Coulson! You made me believe that the man I love was _dead_. For three months!”

 

“Skye -”

 

“Don't -,” she needs to take a deep breath. “Don't _Skye_ me,” she looks at May, at her face that matches Coulson's expression and wonders if she knew.

 

Of course she knew.

 

Next to her, Jemma puts a hand to Skye's shoulder.

 

Skye closes her eyes and tires to concentrate. She can't. She can barely process what's going on right now.

 

“Where – where is he?”

 

“Extraction mission is underway,” Coulson says, and by the way he says it, Skye knows something's not right.

 

“Extraction mission,” she repeats. Her heart clenches again. Jemma's hand holds her tighter. Skye is not sure she can survive this.

 

“We have a reason to believe he's been discovered,” May says.

 

“A reason to believe he's been made? Really? Since _when_?” she asks and neither Coulson or May answer – so they either don't know, or the extraction mission is a long shot. Skye isn't sure which, she isn't sure why Coulson is telling her any of this when the result in the end could be Grant's dead body and her mourning him all over again. And just when she is about to ask, Coulson opens his laptop and turns it towards her. Skye can barely see the streams of data, of numbers and codes covering the screen, and no further explanation is needed.

 

 

 

She doesn’t know how she manages to hack the security system of the Hydra compound, but she does. Five hours later Hunter, Mack and Bobbi wheel Grant in on a stretcher. It seems that everything that could have been broken is broken, that there isn't a single part of him that isn't cut, bruised or hurt. Skye can barely recognize his face under all the furious abuse that he has suffered.

 

He wakes up on January seventh. Appropriate, Skye thinks. Because it's Christmas once more. Because it's his birthday.

 

And because it's a day when she decides she is done with SHIELD.

 

*

 

**Five.**

 

 

She wakes to a snowy countryside, a Christmas tree covered in everything bright and shiny she possesses and Grant softly snoring behind her back.

 

It's ten a.m. Not being on an active duty has ruined her inner clock somewhat (the same one Grant helped her create in the first place), but not enough to ruin her morning habit of working out. (Grant sometimes joins her. As of recently he's able to lift weights again, and he's allowed much less rigorous exercise than what he was used to and Skye tries to play along.) But today she's _not_ hauling her ass out of bed for exercise. There's a reason why she's freelancing while Grant is recovering (for SHIELD and ally agencies alike), and there are perks that come along with it.

 

“You're awake,” he says and drapes his hand casually over her. Skye sighs. One year and he's almost back to his old self in physical sense (the scars and nightmares remain).

 

“Mhmmm,” she answers and stretches. His bearded cheek tickles her neck. He is so ridiculously cuddly on occasions and right now he's wrapping himself around her, a living, breathing human blanket.

 

There's nothing warmer in the entire world.

 

His beard is ruining things a little bit, tho.

 

“No workout?” he asks.

 

“Not a chance,” Skye says and presses against him the best that she can. “Except if it's a cake eating contest.”

 

“You mean that dreadful thing sitting in the refrigerator?” he jokes.

 

Skye turns around to face him; smiling face and bare chest and content expression. (She still remembers last year. She remembers hours spent by his bed, counting his every breath and fearing it might be the last.)

 

“Do I need to do something about your appetite? You're not worn out enough since last night?”

 

He squints. “Nah. You're too easy on me,” he says and his hand sneaks along her side. She shivers. She could make love to this man eternally.

 

She gives him a coy look instead. “Okay. But first -”

 

He raises eyebrows in surprise. Skye laughs.

 

“We're getting that thing off of your pretty cheeks,” she says. He groans in protest but Skye won't have it. She pulls him by the hand, and the big sap he is, he can't refuse her. She brings a chair to the bathroom and he limps along, still sparing his left leg even though the bone had healed. “You'll sit here,” she says and he obediently comes along, pulling on a shirt as an afterthought. She pulls the chair next to the sink and he sits down and relaxes, letting her soap his face. She leaves the water running and takes the razor in her hand. Then she straddles his lap and looks at him, mesmerized.

 

He smiles. “What?” he asks. He looks young and healthy and mostly unscratched. And he's _safe._ That's everything she could ever wish for.

 

“Merry Christmas, Grant” she says.

 


End file.
